


muse

by Cunninglinguist



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Sex, Artist Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Bodily Fluids, Community: theoldguardkinkmeme, Declarations Of Love, Even When He's Sleepy, Face-Sitting, Fluff and Smut, Graphic Description, Gratuitous Descriptions of Yusuf Painting Nicolo, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, Long-Haired Yusuf, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Sleepy Sex, This is Mr Al-Kaysani We're Talking About, like a lot of feelings, vague references to the renaissance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist
Summary: “Yusuf,” he murmurs against his ear, head buzzing with the flowery-spicy scent of Yusuf’s hair.A content little hum rumbles through his beloved, but he doesn’t stir. Nicolò snakes an arm around his waist, splaying a possessive hand over his abdomen, cock pulsing at the muscles that ripple below his palm.“Yusuf, my love,” he tries again, the strain of lust cutting through his whisper.Yusuf hums again, and Nicolo gently presses his pelvis against Yusuf’s unclothed rear. The heat from Yusuf’s naked body already has Nicolò breaking a sweat, and the sensation of his prick pushing against firm muscle sends bolts of lightning up his rigid spine.Nicolò exhales, vocal, fingers tensing, almost capitulating to his urge to reach lower when Yusuf’s breathing changes. He groans, seeking Nicolò's hand for a reassuring squeeze before mumbling, “Nicolò?”Alternatively: Nicolò is too aroused to fall asleep. Maybe Yusuf can help tire him out.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 46
Kudos: 415





	muse

**Author's Note:**

> written for this fantastic [prompt](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/7005.html?thread=2444381#cmt2444381) over on the kink meme. 
> 
> pardon the vague & handwavey historical setting, i am thirsty for artist!yusuf (and caravaggio) and wanted to write something outside of a modern setting. you know, for the ambience (tm).

Nicolò stares up at the moonbeams that splash through the gaps in the curtains. He stares until they begin to dance, vibrate, swirl into new patterns, then he blinks, and tries to close his watering eyes. They won’t stay shut, of course, so he ends up returning to the glowing bars on the ceiling. He’s been doing this for hours now, far too keyed up to succumb to the sleep that he desperately needs while his Yusuf snores softly beside him. With a quiet exhale, he kicks a leg out from under the covers and repositions his body.

The adjustment does nothing. He’s still hopelessly awake, eyes wide, mind racing, heart pounding, with an erection that could cut glass poking a hole through his unmentionables.

And he certainly can’t have that. These were _expensive,_ Yusuf had commissioned them specially from the best seamstress in town, with the finest fabric from the farthest reaches of the world. Yusuf is an artist, a merchant, a connoisseur, and in these times of great personal fortune, he uses his knowledge of and passion for beautiful things to prosper, as well as to spoil Nicolò rotten. It’s been a sumptuous near-decade here in Rome, and Nicolò must admit that, while he places little importance on earthly possessions, ephemeral as they are in the shadow of his long life, he has been thoroughly enjoying every moment of decadence and culture during their stay here. 

Yusuf revels in it, too, rapidly mastering local vernacular, rubbing elbows with some of the most influential, and often the most mercurial, artists and financiers and philosophers of the time. They’ve had the distinct delight of watching the birth and implementation of so many inventions of theoretical and practical use, and such progress is inspiring to behold, like phoenixes rising amidst a vast pile of ash.

The art, of course, is Yusuf’s preferred sea in which to drown. This is no different from any other time in their lives, but the recent explosion of new or refined styles, media, and techniques have him ravenous in the best way. Nicolò’s posed for more paintings and drawings in the past fifty years alone than he has in the five hundred-and-then-some years that they have known each other, for he is nothing if not a willing participant and joyful enabler of Yusuf’s pursuits.

He sighs, shifting onto his side. The massive canvas that Yusuf has been working on for almost two months now stands on its easel in the middle of their bedroom, and the sight of it triggers a frisson of excitement. The lighting in their lodgings is both particularly fine and radically challenging, on account of its many, many windows. But the shadows are what Yusuf constantly refers to as “inviting” and “pregnant” and “suggestive,” with more than a little mania glittering in his dark eyes, prompting study after study in chiaroscuro. Nicolò doesn’t mind being draped in a variety of fabrics, positioned in a number of places to help Yusuf decide on the perfect place for each endeavor—this most recent one has found him on the rich, ruby-toned chaise against the wall, donning a white silky blouse and drawers that leave little to the imagination. 

Functioning as Yusuf’s subject is an exercise in patience for many reasons, not least of which is the raw hunger that develops in the space between a subject and his interpreter’s heated, scrutinous gaze. Nicolò is known to perspire profusely as Yusuf takes his body with his eyes, consuming every curve, every angle, before using the sorcery of his powerful mind to lovingly translate them onto canvas with pigments and egg tempera and those interesting paints from foreign traders that he covets obsessively. 

Nicolò bites the inside of his cheek and cups himself through his undergarment. More often than not, their sessions at Yusuf’s canvas are interrupted by more primal needs, and Nicolò takes depraved enjoyment in the attempt to resist the urge to concede to said needs before his Yusuf does. 

It’s become a game between them. 

Sometimes, Nicolò uses his willpower to remain where he is, holding inherently provocative poses, eyes dark, fully aware that he looks like a feast for a starving man as he watches Yusuf grow progressively more agitated, until finally he tosses his paintbrush aside and pounces on him. Other times, it is Nicolò who breaks first, choosing strategic moments to peel off his clothes, lying where he is, palming himself, begging Yusuf to come ravish him. 

Which he always does, inevitably. Sometimes, Yusuf pushes him down and straddles his lap, lips parted, sweat already beading on his brow from the work (and, perhaps, the subject of the work), cupping Nicolò’s face in his hands, groaning as he takes Nicolò inside himself, grinding his hips in sinful patterns that have Nicolò gasping as he drowns in the rapture of his body. Other times, he forces Nicolò’s legs wide, fingers gripping his ankles as he thrusts into him, staring into his eyes as flowery words of praise and adoration fall from his lips like benedictions. 

A thick, hot bead of arousal leaks down Nicolò’s cock. He turns his face into the pillow to stifle a whine, so hard he can barely _think._

Perhaps he should just bring himself off. Perhaps then, sleep will take him. 

He flings himself onto his other side, grinding his throbbing prick against the linens before settling his gaze on Yusuf. His beloved is lying on his back, naked as the day he was born, mouth slack around soft snores. He’s taken the tie out of his long hair, so abundant curls ring his head, a halo in stark contrast with the white pillowcase. His face is free of tension, profile strong and regal, dark skin bathed in moon-glow like some sort of biblical illumination. 

If Nicolò were more adept with the paintbrush, he’d commit his sleeping lover to canvas time and time again. 

He takes himself in hand and strokes, eyes sticking on Yusuf’s lips, full and soft. He shivers as he envisions climbing on top of his beloved, straddling his broad shoulders and feeding his cock into that plush, open mouth. Yusuf loves to pleasure Nicolò like this, and is astonishingly good at it, always choosing to look up into Nicolò’s eyes, moaning around his length as he takes him deep into his velvety throat.

A helpless, soft noise escapes Nicolò’s lips, and the vulgar sound of his desire for Yusuf squelching in the grip of his fist fills the room. Yusuf’s light snoring hitches, and Nicolò forces his hand to still. His breaths are long and labored as he watches his beloved shift slightly, lips smacking together as he rolls onto his side, still deep asleep.

As much as Nicolò loves the sight of Yusuf at rest, he cannot help the disappointment that curls within him when Yusuf does not wake. 

Nicolò squeezes his eyes shut and resumes pulling on himself as he flips through his vast mental catalogue of lascivious acts that he and Yusuf have experienced together over the years. In the time before he learned of his near-immortality, Nicolò never could have begun to fathom the myriad of sexual pleasures that could be wrung from the human body, nevertheless having an eternity to plumb those very depths with his soulmate. Their amorous appetites ebb and flow with time, as all appetites do, but they have never lost their desire for one another.

In fact, Yusuf would likely be salivating over the idea of Nicolò lying beside him, plagued to the point of insomnia by the incessant coil of arousal in his gut, furiously masturbating while he sleeps deeply, oblivious to Nicolò’s plight.

He laughs breathily. He ought to wake him, include him in this little adventure, so he doesn’t feel bereft when Nicolò confesses come morning.

Besides, Nicolò’s hand will never do the trick the way Yusuf will, and he is suddenly possessed by the need to see his beloved’s eyes when he finally comes.

In a haze of lust, Nicolò moves to fit himself behind his beloved.

“Yusuf,” he murmurs against his ear, head buzzing with the flowery-spicy scent of Yusuf’s hair.

A content little hum rumbles through his beloved, but he doesn’t stir. Nicolò snakes an arm around his waist, splaying a possessive hand over his abdomen, cock pulsing at the muscles that ripple below his palm. 

“Yusuf, my love,” he tries again, the strain of lust cutting through his whisper. 

Yusuf hums again, and Nicolò gently presses his pelvis against Yusuf’s unclothed rear. The heat from Yusuf’s naked body already has Nicolò breaking a sweat, and the sensation of his prick pushing against firm muscle sends bolts of lightning up his rigid spine.

Nicolò exhales, vocal, fingers tensing, almost capitulating to his urge to reach lower when Yusuf’s breathing changes. He groans, seeking Nicolò’s hand for a reassuring squeeze before mumbling, “Nicolò?” 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò sighs, shamelessly rutting against him. Yusuf makes a sweet noise of surprise before turning in Nicolò’s arms to face him. He’s nowhere near fully awake, one lovely eye is still shut, but he smiles all the same. 

“I was going to ask if you were alright,” he says, voice hoarse from sleep. He reaches down to grab Nicolò through his underwear. “But it appears as though you are more than.”

“I’m sorry to wake you,” breathes Nicolò, already half-crazed under Yusuf’s palm. “I cannot sleep.”

“No?”

“No.” Nicolò’s cheeks flush. “I was thinking about you painting me, about our sessions together, how often they turn into lovemaking, sometimes on the same piece of furniture that you are incorporating into your work, and I became—”

“Aroused to the point of madness.” Yusuf presses insistently, eliciting a sharp inhale from  
Nicolò. “You’d have to be, to risk my wrath by rousing me from slumber.”

“You have such a way with words, Yusuf.” 

“I am told it is one of my attributes.”

“One of many.” Nicolò rocks into Yusuf’s hand, lips parting for Yusuf’s sleepy kiss. “I touched myself, just a little, but it was not enough, not with the weight of you beside me, the thoughts of you running rampant through my mind.”

Yusuf’s teeth catch his bottom lip. “You mean to tell me that while I slept soundly, you laid beside me, working yourself into even more of a state?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Nicolò, you must ache between your thighs.” Yusuf wriggles his hand inside Nicolò’s underwear. “You are so heavy and wet.”

“I do ache,” sighs Nicolò, slowly fucking into Yusuf’s heavenly, loose fist. “Please, Yusuf, have mercy, deliver me from this suffering.”

“Ah.” Yusuf’s groggy laughter fills Nicolò’s chest with warmth. “I’ve been awakened for the sole purpose of satisfying you so you can sleep.”

“Perhaps.”

Yusuf laughs again, which quickly turns into a yawn. The lovely, hot pressure of his hand leaves Nicolò’s prick as he stretches his arms overhead, kicking the covers off to reveal the full, gorgeous expanse of his bare flesh. The sight of his cock resting half-hard against his thigh floods Nicolò’s mouth with saliva. He rolls on top of his beloved, kneeing his legs apart before pressing sloppy kisses down his warm, tight stomach. 

“Good of you to take the initiative,” says Yusuf with a grin, fingers carding through Nicolò’s long hair. “I must confess I am not yet fully awake, despite being very, very interested in tiring you out.”

Nicolò huffs a laugh through his nose before parting his lips for Yusuf’s cock. This elicits an arch in Yusuf’s back and a tightness in the grip in Nicolò’s hair, and Nicolò moans at the sensations coupled with the heady taste of his beloved that he’s craved throughout the sleepless night. He adjusts the angle of his head and opens his jaw wider, drooling obscenely onto Yusuf’s lap until his beloved is fully hard, thick and heavy on his tongue. Nicolò’s hole flutters, yearning to be filled like his mouth, stuffed full of Yusuf until he bursts at the seams.

“Nicolò, your mouth,” whispers Yusuf, back serpentine against the sheets. “Nicolò, so good, Nicolò.”

Nicolò pulls off with an unseemly slurp, brimming with barely restrained heat. “I need you inside of me, Yusuf. Please.”

“God in heaven.” Yusuf rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, and Nicolò bites his lower lip as he stares at Yusuf’s cock, swollen and shiny with his saliva.

“Please,” he says again, hastily unburdening himself of his undergarment. “Please, Yusuf.”

Yusuf stretches with another theatrical, loud yawn and pulls his pillow out from beneath his head.

“Come, then,” he says, gesturing to himself vaguely. “Sit on my face, ya habibi, get your lovely hole open and wet for me.”

“Only if it’s not too much trouble for you, Yusuf,” manages Nicolò, despite Yusuf’s words nearly finishing him on the spot. His belly burns as he scrambles to situate himself over his beloved’s waiting mouth. 

“You are always too much trouble for me.” Yusuf gives his rear an impatient slap. “Go on, sit all the way down, you won’t smother me.”

“I’m getting there, if you’ll give me a moment.” 

“Although, if I _do_ suffocate under this truly fantastic, delicious ass of yours, it will be my favorite death yet,” continues his incorrigible lover into his skin, a smile in his voice. 

“I will remember that you said this.” Nicolò leans forward to plant his hands on either side of Yusuf’s torso and obey his beloved’s lewd command. 

A river of molten bliss rushes in Nicolò’s gut as Yusuf touches his hot, wet tongue to his most intimate place, tracing the tight furl of muscle until Nicolò feels himself begin to loosen. 

“Yes,” he gasps, circling his hips. “That feels so good, Yusuf, _yes.”_

Yusuf hums against him, and Nicolò watches deliriously as Yusuf’s prick smears a silvery trail just below his belly button, evidence that he is loving every moment of this just as much, if not more, than Nicolò is.

Nicolò quickly loses himself in sensation as he grinds against his beloved’s face until Yusuf can point his tongue and slip it into his body. He shudders, head dropping low in time to see his own cock dribble fresh fluid into Yusuf’s chest hair. Yusuf’s hands are powerful and constant, guiding Nicolò’s hips with certainty, beard scratching his inner thighs as he licks into him with gusto. A wonderful, infuriating, _empty_ ache builds within Nicolò as his hole opens and clenches desperately around his stiff tongue.

“Please,” he sighs, reaching for Yusuf’s arousal. “I need more.”

Yusuf lifts Nicolò’s ass off of his face, panting against his wet opening before plunging two oil-slick fingers inside of him. The stretch is almost perfect, and Nicolò keens, pushing back immediately for more. His thighs shake around Yusuf’s shoulders as he braces himself on the bed, trying desperately to avoid breaking his beloved’s wrist or smashing his beloved’s nose with the force of his enthusiasm.

“I’m ready,” he murmurs, as Yusuf’s fingers slide easily in and out of him. “Yusuf, I’m ready.”

Yusuf lets out a sigh as he pulls his fingers free, spreading him apart for one long, final look before Nicolò moves to straddle his lap. Heart pounding, he swipes his fingers through their jar of oil and eagerly strokes Yusuf until his beloved’s eyes are rolling back in his head. 

“Ya Nicolò, enough, sit on my cock already,” he says, voice gruff, hands already on a possessive quest up Nicolò’s quivering sides. “Show me why you wrested me from the gentle embrace of slumber.”

Nicolò laughs so hard he snorts, inundated with a powerful wave of lust and adoration for his Yusuf. Yusuf smiles at him, wide and beatific, but there’s such heat in his eyes that Nicolò’s heart skips a beat. Without further preamble, he positions Yusuf where he needs him and slowly sinks down. 

The stretch of him is sinful, delicious, everything Nicolò had known it would be, and he can’t help but let out a small cry as Yusuf lights his body up from the inside. 

“You feel so big,” he murmurs, running appreciative hands up Yusuf’s arms. “God, Yusuf, you are so big.”

“And you are so tight, Nicolò.” Yusuf’s lips part, all traces of humor gone from his expression as he watches Nicolò’s face. “Tight and hot and so perfect in every way.”

Nicolò’s eyes squeeze shut at that, fingernails digging into Yusuf’s strong chest as Yusuf’s thighs make contact with his rear. He’s trembling, raw, exposed, cock dripping steadily onto Yusuf’s abdomen as he slowly twists his hips. 

Yusuf moans, loud and unapologetic. 

“That’s so good, Nicolò.” Yusuf’s hands settle on the plumpest part of his rear and squeeze as Nicolò repeats the motion. “You are divine, hayati, so good for me.”

The fire within Nicolò flares wildly at his words. Yusuf shifts below him and Nicolò cries out at the sudden pressure against that glorious spot inside of him, the one that makes him come with such force, in such great quantity that it never ceases to surprise him no matter how many times it happens. 

“Right there, Yusuf,” he whispers. “Right there.”

“Ah? There?” Another deft roll of Yusuf’s hips has Nicolò’s back arching, another tears a sob from his throat. “Oh sweetheart, you feel so good, does it feel good to have me inside of you?”

“Yes, so good, so good.” The incongruous mix of torture and relief that Yusuf inspires within him, rubbing insistently against the exact place where Nicolò wants him the most, is so overwhelming that Nicolò could dissolve into tears. But he holds on to what control he still possesses, bracing himself on Yusuf’s shoulders as he winds his hips with abandon.

Yusuf’s eyes blaze as he grits his teeth and plants his feet on the mattress, unquestionably awake now, encouraging Nicolò’s movements with strong, sure hands. “Your body,” he says, voice low, almost a growl, “you are built like a warrior, yet you move like a dancer, and you fuck like you do it for a living, ya habibi. How did—ah! Just there, _yes—_ how did I get so lucky, to call you mine?”

A small burst of ecstasy erupts between Nicolò’s thighs, shooting through his body, emanating from his head, his fingers, his toes, before pulsing hotly onto Yusuf’s stomach. “Oh, Yusuf, I am the lucky one. It is you whose body resembles the statues of the ancient gods, whose eyes scorch like fire...the way you look at me when you paint me, the way you’re looking at me now, oh, God, it’s so much, it’s--it’s--”

“You know, I should paint you like this, dancing on my cock, desperate and euphoric, your beautiful face twisted in pleasure,” says Yusuf through heaving breaths. “The way you look in the moonlight, hayati, you are beyond ethereal.”

“I love being your subject.” Nicolò splays his fingers over Yusuf’s chest, tangling them in the sweet, damp dusting of curls there. “But I doubt we would get, _ah,_ anything done, if you had me in your lap for hours.”

“My ‘subject?’ Light of my eyes, you are not my subject, you are my muse.” Yusuf grabs Nicolò tight, eyes shining with awe-inspiring reverence. Without warning, he flips him onto his back, pulling out for the barest moment to rest Nicolò’s ankles on his shoulders, then plunging all the way back in. “And plenty would get done, mmm, just not much art.”

Nicolò cries out, vision blurring at the change in depth and angle of Yusuf’s strokes. His beloved is unrelenting, fucking him until the stars hang within reach, as real as the moonbeams on the ceiling, as real as the ardor smoldering in Yusuf’s beautiful eyes. In a brief, chance moment of lucidity, Nicolò manages, “That’s...that is a weighty title, the muse of a prolific artist.” 

“Weighty, yes, but true. And you are far more than that, you know,” he murmurs, sweat-damp curls falling over his shoulders to graze Nicolò’s flesh. “Your body is my paradise, your heart is my salvation, you are my unending inspiration, the better half of my soul. My life, my Nicolò. My God, how I love you.”

Choking back the sudden tears that spring to his eyes, Nicolò reaches up to stroke Yusuf’s face. “And I love you, Yusuf.” 

“I often worry that there are not words in any language, dead or living or yet to be, to truly describe my love for you, hayati.” Yusuf leans into Nicolò’s touch, joining their gazes as he slows his hips to a gorgeous grind that punches short gasps from Nicolò’s lungs with every push and pull. “I love you beyond measure and reason, I love you to the point of madness. I love you, Nicolò, _Nicolò.”_

Nicolò cannot answer, for his entire body is thrumming with tightly coiled pleasure, and his heart bursts with a profound devotion that turns his thoughts to lovesick mush. If he were even remotely coherent, he’d beg Yusuf to stay inside of him, so that they could be forever joined in body, mind, and soul.

“I know you’re so close, Nicolò, touch yourself,” pants Yusuf, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. Without thought, Nicolò reaches between his legs. He’s a slippery mess, and the moment he takes himself in hand, he is overtaken by urgent pleasure-panic. He moans, and Yusuf shudders violently. “My love, you are going to make me come inside of you, fill your sweet hole with my spend until it drips out of you and onto our bed.”

“Please, Yusuf,” whimpers Nicolò, feverishly stroking his cock as tears begin to slide down his cheeks. “Come, please, please come inside me.”

Yusuf moans again, eyes squeezing shut as he fucks him deeper. Nicolò bucks back as best he can, bent nearly in half, legs shaking against Yusuf’s chest as their bodies fit together as seamlessly as their souls, every motion driving the both of them rapidly towards a breathtaking climax. 

Nicolò’s pulled from his maddening haze to crest for one exquisite, infinitesimal, boundless moment--his body seizes up as he devours his Yusuf with all five senses: his moon-bathed skin, the wild tousle of his curls, the sweat beading down his chest, the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the heat of his breath on Nicolò’s face, the scent of his desire, the unrepentant worship in his eyes.

“Yusuf, Yusuf,” he sobs, as Yusuf grinds his hips in deep, deliberate circles, over and over until Nicolò is moaning without shame, mind whiting out as he is crushed beneath wave after wave of unparalleled, white-hot bliss. 

“Oh, Nicolò, yes, come, my dearest love, moon in my sky, that’s it, you are so beautiful, Nicolò, so beautiful,” comes Yusuf’s voice directly in Nicolò’s ear, thick as honey and infinitely sweeter. He thrusts until Nicolò’s pleasure is splattered between them, hot and viscous, then he grits his teeth and plunges his cock impossibly deeper, faster, feral in the pursuit of his own release. 

A shocked, broken cry flies from Nicolò’s lips as the spasm of another full-fledged orgasm wracks his body, curling his toes, slicking his face with fresh tears as more wet heat spurts from his cock. He digs his fingernails into Yusuf’s biceps, riding out his second rapturous, brutal convulsion until Yusuf tosses his head back and comes with a strangled shout.

When Nicolò’s heart and mind finally return to his body, Yusuf is staring down at him, chest heaving like he’s just climbed a mountain. He cups Yusuf’s face, uncaring of the spend that he smears there. He’s exhausted now, blinking slowly, finding that his eyelids have become difficult to keep open. 

“Yusuf, I love you so very madly,” he says, voice breaking around a yawn at the end of his declaration. 

“And I love you just as madly, Nicolò.” Yusuf beams at him, the fluids in his beard glistening in the moonlight. “Did that do the trick, then?”

“Hmm?” Nicolò’s eyes are barely open now, his thighs relaxing around Yusuf’s warm, familiar weight. “Ah. I think so, yes.”

“I see.” Yusuf chuckles warmly, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to Nicolò’s cheek. “If you were more awake, I would put my mouth on you once more, lick my come out of you until your thighs shook anew. I’d fuck you again, too, perhaps turning you over to take you on your hands and knees, hard and rough, the way you like. But, alas, it appears as though I was quite thorough on this first go, and my work here is done for the evening. I am going to pull out now.”

“Mmm.” Nicolò’s mouth curls in a half-smile. That does sound so lovely, and his belly heats just a bit at the thought, but he is too tired, and the bed is so soft, and his Yusuf is so close, close enough to touch, to smell, to hold. “You’ve never been one to leave things half-finished.”

Yusuf lets out a fond sigh, then gently pulls himself from Nicolò’s body. The sensation of his beloved’s abundant release trickling down his thighs spreads warmth though his gut. 

“I love you, Yusuf,” he says again, more of a mumble.

“You are all, and you are more,” murmurs Yusuf, lips finding his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. “Sleep now, my beloved.”

Nicolò sighs in contentment, flinging a hand out to rest on the closest part of Yusuf he can find, his chest. Calm settles over him like the gentle shadows in one of Yusuf’s paintings, and he falls blissfully into a deep sleep as Yusuf’s heart beats beneath his palm.

**Author's Note:**

> i entered a fugue state during a particularly luxurious bath the other night, and when i emerged, this had materialized on my phone. 
> 
> thank you for reading! comments sustain me beyond measure and reason, i'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> find me in the [tungle,](http://whoreschach.tumblr.com/) if you want.


End file.
